


an elegy

by singlemalter



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-10 02:49:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20128132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singlemalter/pseuds/singlemalter
Summary: The German Grand Prix weekend reimagined.





	an elegy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Born In Captivity- Ineligible to Release (Jashasedai)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jashasedai/gifts).

Mika avoids low-hanging fruit as often as humanly possible; he reckons himself too sophisticated for cheap jabs, preferring to catch people off-guard with a swift reply. But it’s too easy to make fun of Michael, prancing around in his ridiculous suspenders and oversized hat without a care in the world.

“Nice celebration you’ve got here,” Mika tells a disgruntled Toto Wolff.

“It might be for you,” Toto says. “Not for me.”

“Why?”

“It looks bad, celebrating a party like this only for _someone_ to dress up in a Ferrari costume all the same.”

Mika throws his head back and cackles. “Not all of us have that loyalty,” he notes, pointing to his well-worn papaya orange hat. “You should have known before keeping him of all people.”

Toto crosses his arms. “I see,” he says. “And that’s why I should hire you instead?”

“Of course not,” Mika says. “That would go against the entire point.”

* * *

The Renault workers no longer raise their eyebrows at his presence, which Ayrton greatly appreciates; he doesn’t want someone to interpret this as the next damn spygate, especially considering the teams involved. He walks over to the buffet they’ve set up, and Jesus, he’s constantly impressed by how much nicer the food is here compared to McLaren.

With a full plate in hand, he takes his usual seat next to Alain, who’s sitting on his own, squinting at his phone. “Boo,” Ayrton says.

Alain fakes surprise. “You almost got me!”

“I always do.”

“Are you trying to steal our secrets?” Alain says, putting his phone down and stealing Ayrton’s fork to take a bite of his fruit salad.

“Yes! I thought you would never notice.”

“I’m afraid I have nothing but failed prototypes for you,” Alain tells him. It’s joking, but there’s an obvious pensiveness to his words. “Not the best season for us.”

“It doesn’t matter. Where are the—the blueprints? I want all the details of the engine for Spa.”

Cyril picks that exact moment to materialise next to their table and sit directly in front of them. “Bonjour, Alain,” he says with a curt nod. “Mister Senna. What can I do for you?”

Ayrton chews louder just to make a point. He loves to piss off all the Frenchmen he knows, and this one is no exception. “Nothing,” he replies, a handful of chopped strawberries still in his mouth. “Am I not allowed to be here?”

“Not if you steal our food,” Cyril says, deathly serious. Then he leaves.

“Fine,” Ayrton drawls. “I’ll go now. Quick one for good luck?”

“You cannot be serious,” Alain says, but glances around anyway. Nobody’s really paying attention to them—the novelty’s long worn off. He leans in and presses a quick kiss to the corner of Ayrton’s mouth, then shoves him off the wobbly bench. “Go do your job.”

* * *

Mika heads back to his own garage and absentmindedly scans the FP1 data, immersing himself in Carlos’ lap times until a person taps his shoulder and sits right next to him. “Hi.”

He turns and faces Ayrton. “I thought you were going to stay in the Renault garage all day,” he jokes. “Did you get the dirty details?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ayrton’s cheeks go pink. “There is nothing wrong with talking to our suppliers,” Ayrton says.

“Of course not,” Mika says. He lowers his voice just enough to afford Ayrton some privacy. “How is he?”

“He’s doing fine.” Ayrton shrugs, fixes his crooked McLaren cap. “He seemed a little worried about the team, but…”

“I would be the same in his position.”

“Well, I think it _is_ hard to deal with losing to your husband.”

Mika laughs. “Is it? I wouldn’t know.”

“We all have to deal with losing to _your_ husband,” Ayrton quips. He points at the screen in front of them, where the lap times have just updated. “Maybe not Ferrari.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Will this last?”

“I don’t think so. You know how Mercedes is over the weekend.”

His phone’s shrilly tone draws Mika’s attention away from the conversation. “Excuse me,” he says. He glances at the screen—it’s Michael, because of course it is. “Häkkinen.”

“Thank you for the introduction,” Michael deadpans. “Where are you? I need help with Mick.”

“You’re actually asking me for help? I’m impressed.”

“I don’t—just come here. He’s nervous about the showing.”

Mika rolls his eyes. “I’m on my way. Meet me by the briefing room.”

“Thank you.”

“Just so you know, I still remember the day you told me you never wanted kids. You’ve gone soft since Macao.”

“I’m not—”

“Sure, kanaemo,” Mika says, and hangs up. He claps Ayrton’s back. “I’ll go check on them.”

“Of course,” Ayrton says, giving him a knowing look. Mika appreciates the mutual understanding between them; it’s an easy dynamic to fall into, considering they share a propensity for excessive near-death encounters, not to mention the driver-driver relationship woes.

* * *

Mika doesn’t _sprint_, but he certainly wastes no time in getting to the pre-race briefing room. Michael’s already there, his arms wrapped protectively around Mick.

“Hey—what happened?” Mika says, reaching out to zip up Mick’s race suit. “Talk to me, kid.”

“Dad,” Mick croaks out, giving Mika a painfully transparent smile. “I’m just scared.”

“Scared of what?” Mika looks into his eyes, and God, Mick’s grown so much since he’s returned to Michael’s life in this terrifying, different way. “You’re going to be great. Don’t tell him, but I think you’re going to be the best Schumacher on track there.”

The jab coaxes a genuine laugh out of Mick, which Mika already counts as an absolute win. He can tell Michael’s intently watching the exchange, and something about the whole situation makes his heart swell. The two men Mika loves the most are going out on track and carrying on an unbeatable legacy, and he’s lucky enough to watch it from the pit lane.

“You will do amazing,” he reiterates, and kisses the top of Mick’s head. Michael gives him the look he once reserved for the top step of the podium and amazing comebacks, an uncharacteristic fondness that cuts right through all the perceptions of Michael as a cold, calculating bastard. Mika knows better, he always has.

There has never been a single moment in the past three decades in which he hasn’t known Michael Schumacher’s a romantic at heart.

* * *

Michael and Mick do a couple of fast laps on the F2002 and the F2004 respectively, and Mika feels their family will be just fine.

**Author's Note:**

> “keen as midsummer’s keen beyond  
conceiving mind of sun will stand,  
so strictly (over utmost him  
so hugely) stood my father’s dream
> 
> his flesh was flesh his blood was blood:  
no hungry man but wished him food;  
no cripple wouldn’t creep one mile  
uphill to only see him smile.”
> 
> e.e cummings


End file.
